


Fine Shrine

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 11:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5374412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i tried to write horror/erotica and accidentally wrote a bodice ripper ssoo uuuhh heres some purple porn about fucking the small business owner</p>
<p>content warning! gorey and yucky visceral imagery, dubcon possibly, elements of ddlg tbh please dont tell my mom</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Shrine

[That I might see with my chest and sink](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)  
[into the edges round you](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)  
[into the lakes and quarries that brink](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)  
[on all the edges round you](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)

[Listen closely, closely to the floor](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)  
[emitting all its graces through the pores.](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)  
[You make a fine shrine in me.](https://soundcloud.com/snowdenofficial/fineshrine-purity-ring-cover)

 

He found you (he thinks he found you) in the blurry boundary of the woods, wandering, loose hair long dress mere maidens face, in the pink evening of some regrettable summer very near the end of his life.

His convivial call you felt crush in your abdomen. He spoke so gently to you. He put out his arm to you (he regarded himself a gentleman) and helped you limp up from the soughing shadows and fools lights you knew, up the hill to his home, a site of treachery and an eternity of wasted time, where he fed you a draught of water, told you a silly story, and asked to escort you home.

He was guilty -- consumed with guilt -- you saw it written in a pale brindle of long scars binding his broad arms, you saw it in his grimaces, his pacing, his jealously defended machismo -- you saw it in his penitent wince when he caught himself scrutinizing too intensely your ribs, hips and long legs -- you saw it drawing his face into a sculpture of astonishing sorrow when he carried you away in the chill, still night to meet a man in a house -- he was a man, you saw, motivated by guilt, defined by guilt, wandering in an old dissonant dream of his errors -- and he was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful -- fat and muscular -- rumpled and rotund -- plentiful hair of prettiest gray -- wooly arms thick as your waist, either hand quite large enough to kill you with -- his stomach was soft, you saw, his densely athletic thighs padded and blended gently against each other, and he smelled delicious, smoke, salt, that certain salacious phosphorescent acridity human men produce in an amazing intensity. You liked him.

So you returned -- with warmth and a haze of hyaline mayflies you returned to the altar to ennui decaying in its bed of flyers and bills stitched into the frayed hem of the young wood -- you wore a virginal skirt and a girls face, pink cheeks and sweet smile -- you went around with a clutch of tourists (a collection of colorful clucking quails) for more stories, homunculi, mannikin, a marmosets skull stitched to a vitreous scale of moon blue fish bones and the storyteller looked and looked and looked at you.

He wore a red ribbon and an eyepatch over his spectacles. You beamed at him. You loved a liar.

When he recounted at red velvet curtains an invented tale of wolven wyvern from the wood (prolific peril and scandalous carnage; you feigned faintness and some extraneous teenage thing touched your elbow to aid you up) and, you saw with shining interest, with a thousand eyes wide open in your eyed blood, the old man looked.

After the tour, while your fellows went around the shop to inspect the trash, you waited in a pool of tintype windowlight -- you spun your simple amenity and the loops of lace frosting your brown and bespotted thighs -- he resisted well but came to you in time, smiling but scared, shod in untrue mettle and a silly black jacket yawning across the fervid vineyard of his riveting shoulders, and he said (his astonishing sonorous sound!) "you look familiar."

You were. You tipped your chin, folded your thighs, batted your eyes. You beamed as though you couldn't guess what he meant. Nervously he tickled the thinned silver down at the nape of his dense neck -- a charming, childish gesture.

"Do you know anyone named ..." his voice stuttered, shuddered, and faded away. He winced as though you'd menaced him. "Well, nevermind."

Musically you thanked him for his escort the previous evening.

"Forget about it," he said, the phrase slurred and stirred up, a relic of his orientation. Gently, gently, you touched the promontory of bone springing boldly his broad wrist (approximating a girlish reticence you saw resonate white hot in his masculine affectation) and fed him a witless and treacle-sweet smile. It was gradually, cautiously replied.

How did you like the tour? he wondered, and you replied you liked it.

"How is your, ah..."

He meant, of course, the nuisance that had announced he'd kill himself as you'd left him in the morning. You told him he was well. You put on his funny hat (cup of red velvet, yellow moon, black tail) and applied your wagging bottom to the sill shilling the luminous window which phrased you, arranging your ankles, crocheting your curls -- he was afraid, mortally afraid of committing this trespass against you, you saw, and you endeavored against it -- you broadcast your interest in jasmine and lilac and seashell-pink starlight by your beaming eyes.

The instant of his decision (resignation) was visible in the ascending set of his bones and beautiful broad jaw -- he drew closer (uproar, riot, standing triumphant on the serpents wing, you hacked off its singing head) he cast his velvet shadow over you and asked, a little quietly, if you'd like something to drink.

You would, you assured him, and slipped your hand into the expansive paw offered you (its heat, substantiality and masculine coarseness inspiring a little thrill, inert but utterly immobile under your weight) and he led you (he thought you wouldn't detect how he looked over his shoulder at you, shy, incredulous looks stolen from under the shelter of his self-possesion) beyond the noise of commerce, through a door over the register into an old man's home.

The hall he led you up was well insulated from the sound of crowds and woodsong -- aurum-warm, overdecorated, bare floorboards congenially squeaky, and it reeked of him, dust and disuse, a chintzy astringent aftershave, the pungent salt of skin, trace of tin utensils and boiling water, baritone of cigar smoke, bass of his lipid, rich, sludgy blood. There was something singularly lascivious in being drenched in that confidential scent, standing in a room he inhabited alone, somewhere he committed his intimatest somatic processes and sport. He directed you to an extravagantly overstuffed armchair (an old mans indulgence) and departed.

You breathed hardily. You examined the form of him in the checked plush of his chair and a glass caravansary filled with sea and gelatinous little animals which flew away from you in abject horror. You beamed at them.

The hoary sybarite (ribbon undone, shirt opened, sleeves folded once over ample hairy forearms, a plume of ashen hair climbing like ivy the burly expanse beneath his collar, the hummock of his protuberant stomach slatternly released) returned shortly, a glass flute of something in either hand. You observed he was extremely tall.

You watched him pause at a drawer by the recliner on the arm of which you perched -- he extracted from it a crystal bottle from which he introduced a draught of bronze rye wine into one cup -- he stirred it in with his little finger, licked it clean, and offered you its virgin twin, remarking "you're too young for something like this."

The gentle jest ensconsed a question which warranted no reply from you. You accepted it with a platitude of gratitude. Boldly, he inserted himself beside you in his chair. He drank a lot and looked slowly over at you.

"I'm glad you came today," he admitted (moderated tone exposing his nerves;) he told you his name (stone lee, appropriate) and his hand covered entirely your thigh.

When you did not shake it away, the drape became a grip, then an irresistible pull -- you saw a shadow play of your escapade reflected back from the vacant dark of the television which witnessed you -- you found yourself slid into the extensive expanse of his lap, his robust arm slipped into the crook of your waist -- he smiled down on you and it only almost indiscernibly sad.

"This is what you wanted," he asked -- his voice was smoky, low, rumbling, you felt it reverberate in the unyieldingly wide chest you tumbled against -- "isn't it?"

You answered in faint affirmative and his wandering palm squeezed your hip to the periphery of pain, the wedge of his chin nudged your temple, his abrupt exhalation damp in your ear -- you felt the heat of his face before you saw it -- his grip quivered all around you.

"Cute," he confessed. He drank again, deeply. His tickling thick forefinger discovered the embroidered boundary of your skirt; your thighs his knuckles urged gently open; your obedience visibly incited him. He inserted his prominent nose into the downy flowering hair at your nape and sniffed.

He drank again and set aside his glass, cupping your hip, his lips sticky in the hollow under your ear -- charmingly, it meandered up your cheek to your temple, a solicitous caress -- his whiskey-rough bass diffused to a conspiratorial hum low close to you, "you ever done this before, kid?"

You giggled, wiggled, and his hands redoubled over you -- you realized with stuttering butterfly-flutters he could enclose your waist in his two hands, the stem of your spine pluck like a pansy if you upset him. Your surprise-popped lips he sought eagerly -- from you he sipped (pop-sweet acerbic liquor and his devastating taste roiling in his thick, slow tongue, nearly sloppy, not quite drunk) his thumb slipped in the hem of your hidden underthings, a coarse stroke over your thorax. Your gasp he swallowed; you felt him grin.

You felt the lump in his trouserfront prod the cleft of your rump which he ostentatiously rearranged before both hands dipped in your skirt -- your tummy he plotted, your navel, the dawning moth of your pelvis, the plunge above your wincing mound, then his huge hot hands together were rolling your dampened panties along your thighs to wobbling knees where they were drawn taut; the air pricked you, the tip of his tongue lapping the cup of your collar, your glossy wound perceived with clarity and alacrity the prickling texture of his clothed crotch -- your leg clutched, your eyes playfully covered, he chuckled in your ear.

"Tell me what you want," he teased, and as you mumbled and hummed his broad palm patted your upturned buttock very briskly -- "be a good girl and tell me what you want."

"Your cock," you mewed, and his entirety heaved under you in response -- you felt it stir -- his fist slid to the roots of your hair where it yielded a good-natured yank -- he tossed away your underthings -- with the dipping wrist on which you rocked and rutted he opened his fly.

"Come on," he crooned, releasing you, pinching your cheek and urging it away, and emphatically, he insisted, "come on, kitten, you want it, don't you? Take it."

Descending to stoop between his legs he boastfully opened (crawling on the floor as though you worshiped him) you extracted from his slacks with theatrics of puerile ineptitude which made him mumble drunken praise and ruffle your hair an amaranth cap of unparalleled pinkness (its florid philtrum which dewed and blinked) the protracted pomegranate pearl of violet vein descending the tall pillar to the concealed bed of moony floss to hook the laden, fragrant purse containing the unmade twins you appraisingly palmed through the stiff itchy stuff of his trousers. You liked it a lot; you told him so. You felt it shift in the palm of your hand.

You applied like cosmetic its organ-warm end delicately to your lips; with the perfunctory pointed tip of your tongue anticipating its shape, lapping at the aura of warmth, closing slowly (decadently slowly, woefully slowly) in both reverent palms the rotund circumference of its root (it tapped your cheek yearningly) and as you kissed it at last his rumbled lamentations were resonant almost to subaudibility buzzing beneath his pulse in the keen pulp of your soft palette and your part exposed beneath your skirt (sensitized to a singular soreness) clutched.

You nursed; your kisses became looser, wetter, dribbling down the engorged span (he muttered some soft hot things you couldn't understand, vast hands opened and visibly trembling at either side of your face as though tentative to interrupt you), you followed the drops down to the fine fabric they discolored -- you paused at its lap while he shuffled down the waist of his trousers and underpants, insensately cursing -- he hummed at how you buried your nose in what he exposed, the contented sup of your tongue under his heavy testes -- the peninsula of loamy skin you found beneath you eagerly gripped in your lips, thinking if you opened it, Stanley would come all spilling out, hot soft roses and red red wine. You peered up from the dark of his pudenda to see him riveted on you, cheeks and ears lit an alarming scarlet.

His fat cock (spit-slick, violaceous) was confiscated, slipped from your lips and fingers -- his hands around you again, gripped your wrist, slid under your arm, pulled you up like an errant child over his lap flush against his chest. He wiped your chin clean on his sleeve and kissed it, saying hoarsely, "good, good, good girl."

Petting your flank, breasts crushed to his collar he hugged you -- "you ready? Damn," he remarked, finding out under the hem of your dress he picked up to the small of your back streaks of sticky enthusiasm (his investigative forefinger slurped up with an obscene sound) and lowly cursed, "damn, fuck -- you _are_ ready -- excited, huh?" His kisses were chaste, paternal, poppy blossoms by your eye, arms all around you as the dauntless broad tip of his prick nuzzled your shivering, slavering aperture. "Me too."

He was so kind. You hadn't anticipated that. Soothing your shivering thighs he directed you gently, gently, gently, very gradually down -- the tangible suck of surface tension attaching you to him, you twitched, quivered, gulped at the tender intrusion as he prodded your button before finding your seam, into which he slipped with excruciating heed -- he stroked your throat and muttered roughly in your ear a strain of, "now go slow -- there we go, there we go -- ah, ah, ah --" his thick fingers parting you, petting you, his prick insisting, he was very large -- "come on, sweetie, pace yourself -- you don't have to take it all at -- holy fucking --"

You emitted a note impaled on his cock (opened utterly, spread, stuffed, pinned and poured into, his shivering fists on your hips forcing you forward, downward, closer) he harmonized with -- his warm booming bass saturated you -- the vale of his hips docked with your buttock, your splayed knees he stroked, you dribbled in the clasp of his testicles your coccyx addressed, your bud tucked into the astringence of his pubic hair, you felt with an amorous grimace he tenderly checked his prick distending your insides, a little protuberance from your tummy like a baby being made. He looked at that as you sat back, reeling, drawing his hand down his face, through his hair, liver-red and gasping -- he cupped your cheek, audibly gulped, and uttered again, "good girl."

Like a pet or tot on his knee he bounced you -- very gently, very gently, at first, a mere exploratory rocking, stroking your hair and sighing in your ear -- meticulously, tenderly, he scrambled you, a little quicker as he swiped a stripe of drool from your chin -- you crooned and swooned and he caught your undoing in his hands, his lap, the stalwart support of relentless cock striking you, consumed in you -- obscene sounds perceptible beneath the insensibly cloying endearments (doll, baby, sugar, princess) he mumbled in your hair -- his inquisitive piece found out a pocket beyond the fervid lobe in you it tucked into and locked -- your exclamations at that Stanley gobbled up and gave in reply himself in earnest, directing you in his hands to crush against him as he pummeled you -- subdued, butterflied, your button ruthlessly whetted, you came -- sunfire reflected on tumultuous layers of cerulean sea, crest of white cream, serpents screaming beneath -- you disintegrated in his arms, babbling, gushing, and he stroked your shoulders and dotingly praised you but he didn't stop.

Your cunt, satiated, saturated and cake-soft, became in his insistent hands a yielding receptacle; he watched with a benign smile your performance (overwhelmed lowing, flush of salivation, flaccid spasming limbs, eyes rolled away like a lunging sharks) as he plummeted in you, his penis upsetting the swollen and intent surfaces of you -- it was sore, intensely sensitive -- but he was very kind -- he held you very gently, using your hole with only moderate force, humming darkly you were doing so well, you were so good...

He began presently to kiss you -- many times, rapidly, frantically -- he muttered in your mouth -- his searing substances filling you inspired a dozy, slow sort of orgasm over which he clamored -- he cried and carried on at how you gorged on him, clapping his hand to his face in disbelief, but it was natural -- you coveted him. Dozing on his shoulder, you hiccuped. You might have slept. You went away for a while, in any case. You felt very full. It was quiet.

"Carla," he whispered.

When you looked around again (wonderfully warm, covered over in his coat, curled up on the arm of his chair, indignant cramps in all your limbs, filled still with his semen) you saw him (standing, tidied a little, shirt done up and ruined trouser replaced, temple puckered, tentative and penitent) his hand approached your border, the crown of your hair, where it stopped, stuttered, and bashfully fell away.

"How are you?" he asked.

You cuddled up tighter. You blinked at him.

"How old are you?" he asked, and his wonderful voice almost cracked in half -- you wondered if you could make him cry -- extremely sweetly, you smiled at him, and leaning hard, he covered his eyes in his hand.

Oh, he was so sweet. He made you neglect to regret his brother.


End file.
